wife's question had greatly annoyed Monsieur Wachner.

"Of course I have written the letter!" he snapped out. "Do I ever forget
anything?"

"But I'm afraid there is no room vacant in the Villa du Lac," said
Sylvia. "And yet--well, I suppose they have not yet had time to let the
Comte de Virieu's room. They only knew he was going this morning. But you
need not have troubled to write a letter, Monsieur Wachner. I could have
given the message when I got back to-night. In any case let me take your
letter."

"Ah! but the person in question may arrive before you get back," said
Madame Wachner. "No, no, we have arranged to send the letter by a cabman
who will call for it."

Monsieur Wachner pushed opened the white gate, and all three began
walking up through the garden. The mantle of night now draped every
straggling bush, every wilted flower, and the little wilderness was
filled with delicious, pungent night scents.

When they reached the front door L'Ami Fritz stooped down, and began
looking under the mat.

Sylvia smiled in the darkness; there seemed something so primitive, so
simple, in keeping the key of one's front door outside under the mat! And
yet foolish, prejudiced people spoke of Lacville as a dangerous spot, as
the plague pit of Paris.

Suddenly the door was opened by the day-servant. And both the husband and